Ladies and Gentletablets, I recently decided to embark on a trail of self-betterment. I've changed a good many things, including exercising consistently, attempting to eat somewhat healthier, and, here's the big one, (mostly) not drinking. I've learned a good bit from the past month, the most prominent fact being that when you don't drink whatsoever, all of those other things just kind of happen. Long dead are the days when you are intoxicated at 3:12am swearing on your first pet's grave that you've never wanted anything in this world more than you want a Big Mac and 20 chicken nuggets. Well, at least the days when I had to be drunk to say that anyway, but speaking of that let's talk about the wondrous monstrosity that is good ol' Mickey D's and my most recent excursion to said eatery.
After a particularly late night at work a few weeks ago I was extremely hungry, and being that it was after 3am and everything respectable was closed, my stomach sentenced me to 13 minutes hard time in the McDonald's drive thru. This particular establishment is located on the lovely Colfax Avenue in Denver. For those of you that haven't graced Denver with your presence, this particular thoroughfare is known as "the longest, wickedest street in America." Whether you want McDonald's or crack, Voodoo Donuts or hookers, this street has everything you could possibly need to shorten your life substantially. So, like a responsible adult, I shunned all reasonable thought and dove headfirst into a hopefully heroine-free double quarter pounder.
Now I'm not sure if you've ever been to a McDonald's at 3am in a seedy area, hopefully you haven't, but let me say that it is an absolute gold mine for people watching. In a sentence, it's like if Paula Deen's estranged cousin hosted Burning Man at a homeless shelter. And they had pretty tasty fries. The encounter begins with driving up to the menu where you attempt to order through what is essentially your fourth grade walkie-talkie taped to a stick. I was greeted by what seemed to be a furiously malfunctioning robot, of which I understand absolutely nothing. I gave my order, which I believe was supposed to show up on the confirmation screen, but instead appeared to be a vividly colored painting done by Picasso and Salvador Dali's love child. The rage-cyborg went on to repeat my order slightly faster than an auctioneer late for his daughter’s recital, so I politely asked him to repeat it a bit slower which did precisely nothing to slow him down, and I proceeded to the second window hoping for the best.
Side note: What the hell is the purpose of the first window? Ever since I can remember, they've been as neglected as the 9 button on the microwave. Every time it’s "Please pull around to the second window." Are they for decoration? Have they been quarantined? WHAT AREN'T YOU TELLING US???
Moving on. I arrived at the aforementioned second window and was given the first look at a the man who, despite not being a poorly constructed robot, I could only assume consistently had a BAC higher than his GPA and a credit score less than his weight. Harsh? Maybe. True? Almost assuredly. We'll call him Groot because he had about as much emotion as a tree, with a slightly smaller vocabulary. He was an angry elf, if you haven't gotten that yet. Anyway, he was the only worker there, save for an associate sitting far in the back glaring through the window at me, who, in the words of PG Wodehouse, "looked like they'd been poured into their clothes and forgot to say when." After a brief and enlightening exchange with Groot, he left to gather my victuals leaving me to myself for the moment. I spent that time absentmindedly looking around the kitchen, whose inside was best described as "there appears to have been a struggle." Groot eventually returned with my delicacies, and sent me on my way with a merry "ThunksaMcDldsgdn." Nothing like some solid human interaction to end your night. ThunksaMcDldsgdn to you too, Groot.
Fact of the Day: In 2006, a man tried to sell New Zealand.
Shout out Valerie Alvarado.